


Taste

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Cannibalism, Child Death, Child Murder, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Food Porn, Food is People, Forced Pregnancy, Horror, Interspecies, Obsession, Past Abuse, Rape, Scars, Sirens, Sushi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: Marilyn will go to great lengths for the perfect plate, but how far?TW: no hero, brutality, cigarettes, wife cameo, purple foodie bullshit.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 11





	Taste

When he tasted something beautiful, he had to have it. Women and wormwood had gone from his tongue to his heart, and he had ruined each with his adoration. Now he felt the same fluttering possessiveness.

The meat was such a rich red, like a sliced clot, like any good siren should be. And, like any good siren, it was plated simply and allowed a voice. It sang. It was buttery, resonant, sweet, far lighter than it should have been.

"Maybe it's oceanic," his wife offered with a furtive smile. "If it is, they won't admit it. Not even to you."

She was right. _Homo sirenia_ were parasapiens, legally speaking. Any species that could potentially breed with humans had been given a kind of honorary personhood. Harvesting one would carry a murder sentence.

The more distantly removed freshwater _Simea fijis_ were just barely legal. Activists claimed that they were too intelligent, too developed, too close to us, to be livestock. But the law was clear: as long as they weren't genetically compatible, they were animals. And like any other animal, they were made of meat.

Siren was something like whale, something like pork, with a firm bite and an impressive price tag. At a restaurant like Sköld, known for particularly amazing sashimi, it wasn't even on the menu. High-paying, high-profile customers were offered a plate once their tab hit four significant digits. Marilyn certainly qualified.

As he dragged his fork through the soy foam, toward a forest of microgreens, he decided. He needed to know what he was eating. If they wouldn't tell him, he'd dig the truth out.

He didn't change anything, of course. Lending his financial backing and infamy simply gave Marilyn more access. He was free to wander into the kitchen whenever he pleased.

For weeks, he hung around, bothering the staff. He didn't want to seem focused on the siren, so he asked about everything that caught his eye. The sous-chef, Cody, was dismissive, but the rest of the kitchen tried to humor the man now paying half of their wages.

Tim Sköld, the chef for whom the restaurant was named, treated him like an annoying child. Flashes of exasperation were quickly covered by a patient smile. Questions about sources and techniques were met with the same answer.

"Yeah, I'll have to show you…"

It was a dark morning in February when Tim arrived with a small paper-and-twine package under his arm. Marilyn had come in around 4am. He'd taken a liking to one of the prep cooks and occasionally flirted his way into a before-hours feuillete with poached quail eggs. He was startled to see the boss in so early.

Tim seemed equally surprised. His icy stare lingered longer than usual. He said something about a new shipment and headed for the walk-in.

"What do you suppose that is?" Marilyn whispered like a gossipy teenager. "Cocaine? Human?"

"Nothing that cheap," his companion whispered back. "It's siren. Sköld brings it in every month or two, always small packages. I think he gets the shipments at his house and stores it in his home freezer."

"It's frozen?" Marilyn wrinkled his nose.

"All siren is. They flash-freeze it after butchering in case of parasites."

"There are no parasites in my meat." Tim followed his voice into the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. "The animals are in very carefully controlled enclosures. The freeze is just for storage."

"Farmed, then."

"Of course," Tim said flatly. "All siren served in a restaurant setting must be farm-raised, freshwater, and filleted. That's the law."

"Local farm?" Marilyn tried to keep his tone light, but the chef's blue eyes narrowed.

"Yeah... I'll have to show you..."

He grabbed a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, hung it from his lips, and walked away. The back door shut hard after him. The prep cook whistled low.

"I think you pissed him off. His siren is kind of a big deal. People come in just for that, and he decides who gets it. Usually high rollers or someone he wants to impress. It's not like what you get at other places."

"I know. Have you seen him prepare it?" Marilyn asked, sitting on the edge of a counter.

"Nothing to it. Defrosted, sliced, plated."

"That's it?"

"That's it. It's just sashimi."

"Maybe he does something to it before it gets here. Maybe a dry brine."

"Or maybe it's just good fish."

"Siren are mammals."

The cook laughed, "I think you need to relax. I know it's good food, but… it's just food."

He couldn't relax. He had the single-mindedness of Ahab. Somewhere under Tim's mop of blond hair was a secret, a trick. He needed to know. If it meant dragging them both to hell, so be it.

 _Maybe not hell,_ he thought to himself as he crossed the property line. _Maybe just to jail._

Tim had built his reputation on siren and it showed. A large fountain served as a focal point in front of his house. Under the cascading spray, stone mermaids writhed. They channeled the urges of ancient sailors, cupping their breasts and kissing one another.

In stark contrast to the ornate fountain, a simple stone path led from the back of the house to a shed near the treeline. It was too far away to be a garage, too large to hold just gardening tools. And it had electricity. A soft, steady light glowed in one covered window.

Bingo. It had to be a detached kitchen of some kind. Marilyn crept toward it. It probably had long steel counters… a pristine freezer to hold his precious meat… a tank for soaking in a milk brine… or an injection machine… The secret dangled just out of reach, like a bite on a fork, irresistible.

A Wilhelm scream interrupted Marilyn's spy act. He was out in the open and his reptilian brain told him to hide. He sprinted to the building and crouched down, looking around for the source.

Another wail - lower - vibrated through the wall. He lifted his head to the window. It was covered in yellowed paper. He couldn't see anything. The screams simmered into whimpers and yelps.

Marilyn made his way to the door. The squeak of the knob and hinges were drowned out by the sounds inside. A table took up much of his view, but he could see enough.

A bald woman with an ashen complexion and a round face winced. Her wrists were clamped above her head in a device that resembled stocks. From the way her arms strained, her whole weight might've been hanging on them.

Tim stood in front of her, concealing most of her body. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, pulled up and out of the way. His jeans were slouched, revealing the top of his pale ass.

He gripped her, shoulders flexing, as he thrust into her. With each quick stroke, the buckle on his open belt rattled. She turned away and bit her lips together. He grabbed at her chin, turned her toward him, and slammed against her, drawing out a fresh scream.

He should have shouted. He should have jumped up and yanked them apart. He should have held Tim at knifepoint until the police arrived. He should have bashed his head against the concrete floor until his skull cracked like an egg.

Instead, he watched as Tim finished, grunting like a boar. When Sköld turned away from her, he ducked lower, just catching the smear of blood up his stomach. A hinge opened and she hit the floor.

Under the table, he could see her bruised wrists and shaking hands. Her ribcage was speckled with bruises, no doubt from Tim's fingertips. One of her breasts had a large scabbed bite wound. Below, her hips widened and flowed into a tail like a fin whale, striped and pitted with scars.

Below her navel was a bloody mess. Either she'd been intentionally mutilated, or her vent simply wasn't large enough to accommodate Tim's size. Marilyn didn't know enough about siren anatomy to be sure. All he knew for certain was that she was an oceanic siren, a true mermaid, as close to human as an animal could be.

"Hey!"

Marilyn jumped at Tim's voice, then settled when he realized he wasn't the intended audience.

"Get back in your tank. I shouldn't have to tell you." 

She whined and began to drag herself toward an inset pool not much bigger than a hot tub. Her grey, rubbery skin dragged against the rough cement. Slowly, she slid into the water and ducked under the surface.

A lighter clicked and smoke wafted. Only then did he bother to put himself away and straighten his clothes. He was facing the door, but Marilyn could barely see him, a stripe from chest to thigh. He felt confident that he couldn't be seen.

"Better fuckin' take this time," Sköld muttered around his cigarette. "We're getting low."

He took a grey button-down shirt from a hook on the wall and put it on, then rolled the sleeves up. Marilyn followed him with his eyes. He hadn't noticed the long counter. It was a workspace not unlike what he'd imagined.

Halfway there, Tim stopped and faced the door, still open several inches. He walked toward it slowly. Panicked, Marilyn scrambled around the table. The chef clicked his teeth, pushed the door closed, and returned to his task.

On the end of the counter was a very large steel bowl. It dripped condensation in the warm shed. Sighing heavily, Tim dug through the ice inside. He pulled out a siren, an infant, pale and lifeless, with a brush of blond peach fuzz slicked across its scalp.

Marilyn tasted bile and covered his mouth. He'd wanted so badly to know, and now he wanted to spit the knowledge out like a bitten apple.

The sour stench of entrails filled the space. Marilyn tried to close his eyes. When Tim shuffled, the sound of his boots made him look, sure each time that he'd been caught. He shuddered and heaved, watching the man remove skin and bone.

"You can have this part back," he said, bringing a gore-streaked butcher block to the pool. "Lots of fat, B vitamins, folate…"

He tossed the offal in the water, a piece at a time. The siren slowly lifted her head. She took a chunk and began to eat it, making choked sobbing sounds.

"You might want to come over here, Marilyn," Tim said.

He dropped the block into a work sink. Slowly, Marilyn stood. His knees ached and his chest was tight. He eyed the closed door, but didn't run.

"Come on, it's ready."

Marilyn was taken off guard by his nonchalance. After so much brutality, Tim was casually leaning against the counter. His smile was too broad.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?" Sköld chuckled. "The sashimi. It's what you came for, right? I can't blame you. It is utterly unique."

"You… you're an animal."

" _That_ is an animal," Tim spat, pointing toward the pool. "Barely different from a goat or a salmon, once you get past the face. Its worth is determined in the kitchen. Fortunately, its flavor elevates everything it touches. And my cultivar is even better, isn't it? It takes a long time to gestate, and I'm down to one maid until August, but it's worth the wait."

He gestured toward the counter. Four small portions of slick red meat waited. One had a few slices separated. It was too familiar. Marilyn could almost hear the scraping of a fork through soy foam.

"This is wrong," he whispered, tears beginning to run. "What you're doing is wrong."

Tim crossed his ankles. He shrugged.

"Illegal, sure. A good chef takes risks."

"You're disgusting."

"Maybe… But _this_ is delicious. You said it yourself. Here…"

Tim picked up a slice on the flat of a knife and held it close to Marilyn's lips. Contrary to the words he'd said, his mouth watered.

"... taste."


End file.
